


Warmth

by ShaeNotChwe



Category: Original Work
Genre: But hey this one has an almost happy ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sorry for this, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26978929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaeNotChwe/pseuds/ShaeNotChwe
Summary: Everyone deserves a little warmth.
Kudos: 2





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Stay safe, lovelies.

She pressed the blade into her skin, just a little. Not enough to cut. Not yet.

What brought her here? What made this the only option?

Honestly, she didn’t know. She couldn’t even feel the blade in her fingers. She couldn’t feel the cold tiles of the bathroom floor under her. She couldn’t feel the ache anymore from the new bruises lining arms, colouring them an array of dark blues and purples. She couldn’t feel her split lip anymore. 

She couldn’t feel.

She couldn’t remember what the sun felt like. What warmth was. What light and love and dreams were.

She couldn’t remember. 

But she could remember the hard hands, the yelling, the bleeding. Blood. There was always blood. It was always her own. 

She pulled one side of her shorts higher, revealing a small patch of lines. Some dark, some faded. Some just starting to heal. 

Blood was always warm. A warmth she had been lacking. But this warmth came from her, not him. This was something she could give herself. She pressed the blade back down. Harder, though. So that she might feel something. 

The blade was still pressing down when someone banged on the door, her hand jumping and slicing a clean line on her skin.

She looked at it, watching the blood slowly bead to the surface. Warmth. That she did feel. It roused her enough to realize someone was still banging on the closed door, repeating her name.

But it was her, not him. She reached up and unlocked the door. 

The friend slowly pushed the door open, peeking her head inside. She saw her on the floor, looking down, arms hanging limp, and her expression changed from one of anxiousness to tender concern. 

She entered the room and closed the door behind her. Kneeling beside her friend she looked at her face, to the split lip, down to her arms, the mottled bruises, following her gaze down to the dark red line on her leg.

Taking a breath, she looked back up, pushed her friend’s hair behind her ear and softly met her gaze.

“Let me take care of you, she whispered around the lump in her throat. 

Her friend blinked. Looked at her blankly for a moment before tears slowly slid down her face. She took a stuttered breath, whispering back, “Just kill me now, I’m done saving myself.”

The air around them hung suspended, as if in limbo. The air itself waiting for the response. Waiting for the answer.

They blinked at each other for a forever that lasted moments. Moments that never ended but ended too soon when the friend reached over and pulled the blade out of her hand. 

She watched with a sort of detachment as her friend leaned forward and wrapped her arms tight around her. 

It was a few moments before she brought her arms up.

Warmth. 

She felt that.


End file.
